Kennedy Hoss of Musket

Chapter 6: Ashes to Ashes

I push open the door and yell for Hannibal, but she doesn't come running. I exhale and retrieve my charging bracelet, then lay down on the cold tile floor to mope as Cat approaches me.

Cat always comes home. Always. Sometimes I worry about him, though. What would I do if he was killed? I sit up and allow him to step into my lap, and I wrap him in my arms. My eyes fall on a tiny shelf mounted to the kitchen wall that holds two glass jars.

A lot of people have died in Musket, and because it's so small we don't have room for a cemetery. Instead, our loved ones are handed back to us in jars with a scrap of colored ribbon tied around the rim. Dr. Rosary does the cremations himself. But some people hang their jars from a scraggly tree a little way's down from the playground on our side of the fence.

I lift myself from the floor and climb up onto the counter. This is the first time I've even touched these jars. Hannibal was the one who got them from Dr. Rosary and put them on the shelf, and she's never let me touched them. But right now I have the biggest urge to.

Each jar is about the same size with a hinge that unlocks the top. My mother's jar has her name politely written on the side; Joy Zanne Claremont-Hoss. I touch the looped cursive letters and touch the ribbon. It's a floral rosy pattern that would have matched her complexion perfectly. My father's jar has his name written on it, too. Isaac William Hoss. A lot of people called him "Ishmael" or simply "Ish" though, like the main character in Moby Dick. His ribbon is a coppery color that reminds me of trees and shoes.

Cat slips over and brushes again my mother's jar. He sniffs the latch with his nose, and I notice suddenly that it's broken. He sits too close and the jar tumbles over, and he skids away, scattering the ashes.

I mumble a curse under my breath and shoot a look at Cat, who's rubbing his cheeks against my elbow. With much annoyance, I nudge him away. Carefully, I back up on my haunches and start sweeping my mother's ashes back into the jar with trembling hands. Cat walks over and lays in some of the ashes. He rolls belly up, like he deserves to be pet. I wait patiently for him to sit again then wrap my arms around his legs and toss him a foot away from the mess he's made. He jumps up on the counter, lingering by the open window.

"Don't leave," I plea quietly, replacing my father's jar on the shelf. I kneel down to sweep the last of the ashes into the jar, but turn my head to blink slowly at him. Cat sits down with his tail hanging over the edge, but turns his head away from me.

With a sigh I replace my mother's jar on the shelf and open a can of cat food for Cat. Cat food is probably some of the grossest stuff in the world, but Cat loves it. As he wolfs it down, I shut the window. The only reason I'm not afraid to sleep in my room alone is because Cat is always there to make sure I don't feel alone. Hannibal sold her bed, so she uses the ones my parents used to sleep in.

In the bathroom, I roll up my sleeves and start working the pump that feeds into the wall and to the shower head. I then give the wall a good pound with the side of my fist and the water reluctantly makes its way through the pipes.

Windy's family is the only family that doesn't have to work up a sweat to get clean. Everyone else on the other hand has a water pump implanted in their bathroom that has a pipe attached that leads to a shower head sticking out of the wall. It sprays down into what resembles a large silver tin bucket about 2 or 3 feet wide with no bottom, but a tiny drain in the center. The two temperatures are below zero and hell-fire hot, which you don't really have a say in. Today it's hell-fire.

I strip of my shirt, jeans, shoes, and undergarments before stepping in. I smooth my hair back and rake some goo through it to degrease it. Hannibal is always complaining that I don't wash my hair enough. After about five minutes the pipes groan and the water quits. Tonight I haven't had a particularly bad day so I don't mind being cut a bit short.

I give myself a quick side braid and pull on my undergarments. In my room I select a high low shirt and a pair of worn out shorts and put those on, too. My pajamas wore out a long time ago and were made into other things or given away since most of our clothes come from Twain, and tend to be costly. Mrs. Finn runs a little shop that makes things from scratch, but she does a lot of that on her own, so there isn't exactly a lot to choose from there.

It's getting cold, so I also slip on a pair of beige TuffRider socks with red and blue diamonds and white lines. I then burrow deep down in my bed, worrying about Hannibal. Please let her be okay.

Cat jumps up on my bed and I sense the weight of his paws making his way over to me. I feel his fur brush up against my face, and the smell of ash. He lies down with his back pressed against my hair. My face suddenly feels dirty, so I sit back up and switch on my light. When I touch my fingers to my face and then examine them, I see a color much darker than my mother's ashes that is almost black.

I throw back the covers and go into the bathroom. In the mirror, I see the dark color smeared around my cheek under my eye. Sure enough, my hands are covered in it, too. I run into the kitchen where my parents' jars sit, and I take them both down. I set a bowl in the sink and place a colander on top of it. Then I dump my mother's remains into the colander.

Damn! A big cloud of ash puffs up into my face and I nearly drop the jar. I wet a cloth and press it to my face as I sift the ashes in the colander. I watch as the gray-white powder falls into the bowl, but something stays behind.

I know a lot about human remains, and have several books on the matter. Because of this, I know that after a human is cremated, there are still bits of bone left behind. Dr. Rosary's cremator is fueled by either propane or oil, so it's pretty modern. With this in mind, there shouldn't be any reason for him to be burning wood in them during a cremation process. So why was I looking at charred bits of wood in my colander right now when I thought I'd be seeing bone?

Flash back

I am four years old. My mother and I are taking a walk when I see the playground, just on the other side of the fence. Letting go of her grasp, I start running towards it.

"No Kennedy, no!" She cries in a shrill voice. I stop and turn around to look at her.

"Let's play on the seesaw, mommy," I say. I'm shaking a little from hearing the tone she has just used with me. It's the same words and tone she used when I was about to stick a fork in the plugged-in toaster to retrieve some bread.

She catches up to me and takes my hands in hers.

"Kennedy, baby girl, we don't go on that side."

My eyes drift from the playground to the town hall and library.

"You do," I reply a little offended. I was 4, I didn't yet understand how much age matters.

"That's for emergencies only," she tells me, "for when we need something we can't get here in Musket."

"Why can't we move?" I ask

"Not enough money," she says.

My mother takes my hand, and I get the feeling that we're going to get some ice cream. I look over my shoulder at the fence. This is the first time I feel angry towards it. I stick my tongue out at it in protest, then turn back and straighten my shoulders. If only it could still be that simple today.